


Putting Him in His Place

by AetherSeer, Catznetsov



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Washington Capitals, apparently 'sexy bullying' isn't a tag, apparently the tags don't understand John Carlson's sex appeal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 07:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20524592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/pseuds/Catznetsov
Summary: The Patrick kid’s been sassing John all night, chirping as they dig out pucks in the corner, throwing the body in an effort to get one by John over to where Braden holds the net.John’s not much of a betting man, but the dull red flush that creeps up the kid’s cheeks isn’t just from exertion.





	Putting Him in His Place

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have a yen for orange and great taste in friends, I attended my first NHL game with A. on March 24 to see the Flyers @ the Capitals. Which is why we didn’t see John Carlson and Nolan Patrick trying to bully each other until months later, as seen here: https://thiccthighsmurdereyes.tumblr.com/post/186464782229/trevrmoore-shit-stirring-or-just-star-crossed (apparently the jumbotron operator does not have great taste). We knew we had to have the fic of that moment immediately, which is why we didn’t finish it for another 3 months.
> 
> This fic is written with sleazy affection for both teams involved, and many thanks to immoveableobject and elenajames for checking our Flyers facts.

The Patrick kid’s been sassing John all night, chirping as they dig out pucks in the corner, throwing the body in an effort to get one by John over to where Braden holds the net.

John skates up behind the kid as they reset for a faceoff, tries hard not to smile too much at this vicious little mockery dropping from that pout.

“I can think of a better use for that mouth,” John drops into the middle of the kid’s low mutterings. “You might even deserve it if you put in the effort.”

John’s not much of a betting man, but the dull red flush that creeps up the kid’s cheeks isn’t just from exertion, if the looks he throws John’s way the rest of the game are any indication.

Neuvy coughs up the kid’s phone number and the Flyers’ hotel without too many questions—benefits of being a former Cap, John supposes. Questions usually lead to way more detail than anyone wants to know about anyone else’s sex life on this team. Ovi’s influence, John’s sure.

> **To NP: ** This is John Carlson. You want to put in the effort, prove you’re worth my time, I’ll see you in Rm 608 of your hotel at 11:30.

John doesn’t get a response for a few minutes, then:

> **From NP: ** How’d u get my ##
> 
> **To NP: ** That’s the question you choose to ask?

John rolls his eyes and swipes out of his texts. Either the kid will show up or he won’t. John won’t be too fussed either way.

John’s just finished getting the worst of the game sweat off when he hears the knock on the door. He wraps a towel around his waist, cinching the knot tight, and peers through the peephole. Long hair, nervous eyes, high cheekbones. Looks like Patrick has some nerve to him after all.

He doesn’t expect Flyers orange to blind him when he nudges the door open. “You’re lit up like a beacon,” John remarks dryly as Patrick—Nolan—slips inside. “If you don’t want people to notice, you might consider not sporting team merch to a hookup.”

Nolan chews on his lip, a nervous tell for all his swagger and sass on Washington ice. He’s as tall as John, but not nearly as broad. Out of pads, it’s easy to see his youth.

“You still want this, kid?” John asks. The door to the hallway’s shut, but John hasn’t locked it yet.

John can see the moment when Nolan makes up his mind—his shoulders set back and his chin lifts to stare John squarely in the face. “Never said I didn’t,” he challenges.

John just raises an eyebrow, keeps his tone mild. “People can change their minds.”

“I didn’t.”

“Uh huh.” John lets the lock click shut. He can see Nolan’s Adam’s apple bob as the boy swallows.

John opens the mini-fridge and sets out two bottles of water on the table. He lets a hint of steel edge into his voice. “You let me know if that changes, kid. There’s two kinds of playing around, and I’m not looking for the second.”

Nolan gives up gnawing on that lip long enough to shape a little whistle. “Wow,” he says. “So do lines like that work on—”

“Don’t go there,” John says, even. “Let’s not go there.” He doesn’t want to know which of the younger guys on the team Nolan might pick to accuse him of having this kind of relationship with, but none of them deserve it. Nolan might think of it as confirming a weak point, but if the kid thinks protecting his teammates’ names is a weakness, or couldn’t have predicted it would be John’s sticking point the moment he walked in, John can’t help him. 

“Fine,” Nolan says, but he ducks his head, not giving up the stare but admitting to that limit.

John nods, firmly. “Anything I should know about you? You clean? Have you done this with anyone?” John doesn’t have any illusions about being Nolan’s first anything, but he needs that confirmation.

“I’m not—I’ve done this kind of thing before,” Nolan protests. His cheeks redden blotchily, color rising similar to what John remembers from the game.

“Mmhm,” John replies, stepping further into the boy’s space. This close, the inch John has on the kid is just enough for Nolan to tilt his head back a fraction.

John touches Nolan’s shoulder as a warning, then slides a hand into Nolan’s hair and grabs a handful, playing on a hunch. Sure enough, Nolan’s mouth drops open on a quiet moan when John tugs his head back. John leans in, nips at Nolan’s bottom lip, gets the kid panting into the kiss.

Nolan’s eyes blink back open when John pulls back, dropping his hand from Nolan’s hair to the hem of his shirt. “Wha’—?”

“Let’s see how far down that blush goes, hm?”

John doesn’t give Nolan much of a chance to reply, sliding his hands up pale skin and over Nolan’s head. He chuckles, maybe a little meanly, at the affronted face the kid make when his head pops through the collar, hair mussed and tangled.

Nolan blows his bangs out of his face and starts shrugging the hideous orange material off his arms. John catches him before he gets the shirt off, twisting the material down and over Nolan’s arms to lock them in place behind his back. “Not so fast, kiddo.”

Nolan’s flushing even harder now and, well look at that, that blush does stretch down his chest. “You didn’t think you were gonna have your hands for this, did you? Not after that game.”

Those roses in his cheeks bloom and pale, into even worse splotches. His lower lip goes all resentful, red, and he opens his mouth to say something instinctive before biting it again. That’s fair. He’s the one who lost that game; he didn’t lose it personally, John didn’t mean that, would credit it more to Tommy and the call-up being beasts than any mistake the other team made, other than paying Cam Talbot. The kid had been fine, too much so, in both senses of the word, or John wouldn’t have started shit with him. 

But it’s hard to settle a loss like that sometimes, worse when you weren’t the problem so fixing it is out of your control. That’s fine. Taking him the rest of the way out of his own head is John’s job now, and that vulnerable point can go on the list for later.

“Oh, sorry,” John says, and softens his hands as he draws back, trailing fingers up the delicate insides of Nolan’s trapped wrists. “Still sore?”

“Jesus. Is everything a dad-joke to you?” Nolan asks, rallying, but his skin just shivered under John’s touch, muscles of his forearms quaking, not away or against the fabric but about to press his wrists back into John’s hands before he caught himself.

“Aw,” John says instead of smiling. “There you are.” He gets an acidic green stare, up just that one important inch through masses of pale lashes. John lets go of his wrists completely, letting the tight fabric do its job of reminding him where John’s hands were and where he put him. There’s nothing wrong with Nolan’s legs, but he wavers just barely forward towards John’s bare chest without the grounding touch.

John goes right for it, sweeping the backs of two fingers across that fascinating angle of his cheek. Maybe he can get that blush back. Nolan startles more than turns his head away, but John cradles his jaw in his other palm, pushing him back. He doesn’t even need to press at the corner of Nolan’s mouth, though, before it’s slipping open, bitten lower lip just a little slick. It’d be rude to pass up an offer like that.

Nolan takes a sharp breath when John brushes that lip with his, instead of bites. He takes another, hitching, when John sucks, then scrapes teeth over it. He starts trying to move his head for some kind of better angle, pressing up into the kiss, so John drags the hand on his cheek back through his hair, fingers snagging through fresh from the postgame shower curls for an anchor. He holds Nolan’s head there to stop him from turning, works the thumb of the hand on his jaw over the proud point of his chin to rub at the soft skin there, then force his face up. 

When John pulls back to look he’s furiously pink, eyes hot. “There you are,” John says, admiringly, annoyingly, on purpose. Nolan fumes at being spoken to like he’s known. He plays at tugging his face pointedly away, but turns to the side John’s holding instead of really pulling free, digging John’s fingers in harder. John hasn’t got a lot of fingernail, if the kid’s looking for a more immediate kind of pain, but he can take that tiny request until he’s ready to plead properly.

He relents with the hand Nolan’s trying to hurt himself on, pushes slowly but firmly back into his hair and uses it to turn him back for another kiss. Nolan tips his face up into it, then bites him. John lets him, tests the spot with his own tongue—not too sore—and steals another kiss before letting him go.

Nolan stays standing, not quite steady. His lower lip is slick, red, more from fighting than anything John did, and he twists like he would scrub at it if he had his hands. “‘s not what I came for,” he mumbles. Hockey’s finest.

John inspects his fingernails. Not much to work with at all, which, it’s never been his favorite. “Well,” he says. Too bad for the kid if he likes that, but it’ll make it easier to be sure how much John hurts him next. 

“You’re gonna say something about coming,” Nolan says. “Jesus Christ.”

“Well,” John says. “You don’t have to.” He takes a step back, then turns entirely. Nolan makes a sound before he’s even gotten halfway across to the hotel bed, and it’s not much, but clear enough. When John sits at the edge of the bed and cuts a glance up through his lashes Nolan is still wavering there looking frustrated, like he thinks he just gave something away. He hasn’t, or nothing new.

John’s finished with his nails. “C’mon then,” he says. “Or what did you want to come for?”

That’s apparently enough to annoy Nolan into action. He steps forward and stumbles as he crosses the room, feet unsure under him. Sometimes being tied up is like that, overwhelming all over. John reaches up at the last moment to catch him and winds up with a lapful, Nolan’s collarbones right in his way if he tries to look anywhere, blotchy bare chest achingly hot against his. His hands, bracing Nolan’s sides when he wobbled, fall to his hips and Nolan rubs up against John’s chest, hot skin and growing heavy in his jeans. 

“Get off,” John says, pressing the words into the curve of his jaw. “That wasn’t a pun. Down, or I’ll drop you.”

Nolan squirms for a better angle for whatever it is he’s hoping to do, craning his head. He’s no longer trying to keep eye contact with John, so much as with John’s chest hair. “And go where? You’re taking up the whole bed.”

“Oh, no chance you get a spot on the bed yet,” John says. He starts rubbing a distracted circle with his thumb over the soft skin at Nolan’s side, and stops. “Who’s been training you? You’re probably barely even housebroken. Move.”

“Where?” Nolan says again, starting to sound properly pissed. “I didn’t come here to stand around all night.”

“Sure. You’re a smart cookie. I’m sure you can figure something out,” John says, and spreads his thighs enough that Nolan, perched over them, has to wobble. It’s not safe to shove him off for real, not without his hands to break a fall, but John can push at Nolan’s hips in a way that makes him startle, looking up at John again and then quickly down at John’s lap and the floor.

“What if I don’t?” he says after a moment, startled calculations in his voice. He is smart after all, enough to work out that the threat John made a moment ago wasn’t one John can really follow through. That was John’s mistake, so he sighs and lets the kid enjoy that point he just scored, and then he slaps him across the face.

Nolan’s mouth drops open, cheek flashing pale then rosy and draining back to furious blotches. He doesn’t seem to have anything more clever to say.

John tips Nolan’s chin up, presses a thumb to those lips. Nolan bites him. John backhands him this time, knuckles cracking against Nolan’s cheekbone. Nolan jerks, twists, arms straining against the orange fabric binding them behind his back.

“You want another?” John asks, and Nolan doesn’t say anything. John tips his chin up with two fingers. “That was a question. You just say yes, or no.”

“Nobody’s  _ training  _ me,” Nolan says instead, in a rush. “I don’t need anybody just to tell me what to do.” That struck a nerve, then, and by the way he’s rocking unconsciously against John’s thigh it wasn’t a bad one.

“That didn’t sound like yes or no,” John observes. He pinches the meat of Nolan’s thigh, getting a shuddering gasp and a twitch of Nolan’s hips. “If no one’s training you, then here’s lesson one: If I ask you a question that needs a yes or no answer, you tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

Nolan sets his jaw, like he’s going to dispute John’s words, and John cracks him across the face for the third time, shocking a high-pitched whine out of the boy.

John gets his hand around Nolan’s ribs and tugs him over, jeans tugging at the terrycloth of John’s towel, wobbling against John’s hold in an effort to keep his balance. Another guided push and Nolan’s knees thud against thin hotel carpet between John’s bare feet.

“You gonna stay where I put you, or you want to backtalk more?” John asks, examining his knuckles for ‘damage.’ He maintains the facade of not caring which way Nolan answers, clocking how the not-quite-a-rookie responds when he adds, “Your captain agreed you need some discipline.”

There’s no way for Nolan to know John  _ hadn’t _ actually talked to Giroux, but the mention of his captain does get John a panicked, wide-eyed stare. “W-What? He—”

John smacks him again, moderating the blow to make sure Nolan’s cheek takes the brunt of it. It wouldn’t do to give the kid an accidental black eye when John’s going for the part of his face that can actually take a bit of a beating.

Nolan’s head jerks to the side. He pants open-mouthed, eyes blinking rapidly. Probably holding back tears, if John’s any judge. But Nolan does turn his face back, staring up at John again, opening his mouth to say something that’s more than likely going to get him hit. Again.

Nolan’s cheeks have to be stinging, as many times as John’s hit him. John’s been careful, but he’s definitely felt that plush lip beneath his knuckles more than once as the kid flinched away.

John presses his thumb to Nolan’s lip, testing. Nolan’s mouth falls open and he releases a hurt whine. “You got something more to say?” John asks.

Nolan shakes his head the tiniest bit, hair falling into his eyes again. He mouths at John’s thumb, delicate kitten licks to the tip. “Uh huh, so that’s what you want, then? Something to keep your mouth busy now that you’ve learned not to sass.”

Nolan’s lashes are ridiculously long, and from this angle it’s even more obvious than before. He sways in, nuzzling at the terrycloth that separates him from John’s skin.

John sweeps Nolan’s hair out of the kid’s face, tucking it behind his ear and moving his hand down to cup Nolan’s chin. Nolan whines, tries to break free of John’s grip and go back to sweetly mouthing at cloth as if he could tease John’s cock out of its confines by will alone.

“Oh,  _ now _ you’re sweet, hm? Just needed to be put in your place a little, get that sass slapped right outta you, huh?”

John’s pretty glad he’s only in a towel. It makes getting his dick out so much easier. And the kid’s reaction is priceless, eyes huge and mouth dropping open even more, tongue flickering out to moisten his lips. It’s rather flattering, really.

John drops the towel to the floor, gets a hand in the kid’s hair again. Nolan shudders when John uses that grip to tug him in closer, forehead against John’s thigh. Nolan turns his head, wincing when his bruised cheek lands against skating muscle. “Yeah, that’s what you want, huh.”

Nolan tries to nose at John’s cock, pulled up short by the grip John still has on his hair. “Eager for it, aren’t you? So pretty down on your knees, gagging for cock. Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll get your treat.”

Nolan glares up at John for a half-second before he drops his eyes again. “Finally learned your lesson, then?”

Nolan whines softly. And then he sneaks another glance up, even quicker, not the kind through his lashes that’s meant to be noticed but just looking. It’s like one second to the next he’ll want all John’s attention on him, then forget that John  _ can _ see him, forgetting any kind of act. He’s checking for John’s reactions, just because he wants them.

That twinges something familiar, the kind of good connection John’s sometimes gotten with his exes in a scene when the two of them have a shared purpose and they’re too eager for it to even think about whether they’re acting hot. Nolan just wants to see signs he’s doing it right on John’s face.

John softens his fingers in his hair, curving his palm over his skull, and then pushes to the side instead of digging in, pressing Nolan’s sore cheek into the muscle of his thigh. He doesn’t grind him in but keeps that hand steady, like a bar, to hold Nolan here. After a moment Nolan notices that he can still move a little, and then he uses that limited room to kiss John’s inner thigh. John strokes firmly over his hair to remind Nolan his hand’s still here, that John could still move if he wanted, but when his hand lifts Nolan nudges up, breathing hot against John’s inner thigh and following with his lips and the shy heat of his tongue. John strokes again, and maybe it’s more like petting.

Nolan moves his head into the petting, and John indulges him with longer, gentle strokes, fingertips sliding through the fine strands. “That’s it, isn’t it, sweetheart,” John murmurs, watching Nolan’s eyes go half-lidded. 

Nolan’s breath is coming faster now, long and hitching against John’s skin. When he gets to the top of John’s thigh, his mouth is hanging open just for air. He manages less of a kiss than to bury his face in John’s skin. “Mmhm,” John encourages him. “Good. Nice and easy now.”

John loosens his grip just a little to see what the kid does. Nolan mouths at the side of John’s cock, tongue slipping out for little kitten-licks when John doesn’t discourage him from doing so.

John thumbs at Nolan’s lower lip, gratified when Nolan tries to suck the digit in further into that wet heat. “Think you’ve done this a few times, haven’t you,” John observes, stroking Nolan’s hair back from his face so he can get the full effect of those long-lashed eyes when Nolan tries to glare at him again. “Uh huh.”

John shifts, keeping Nolan’s body boxed in by John’s thighs and the bed, but making sure there’s enough room for Nolan to lap in closer, point of his nose nudging at John’s pelvis. John sinks his hand into Nolan’s hair again, pulling him back just enough to where John can get a grip on himself and tap his cockhead against Nolan’s lip.

“You take what I give you,” John says. 

Nolan whines quietly, eyes nearly crossed as he tries to mouth at John’s cock, tongue slipping out to lave at the tip. John lets him forward just enough for the mushroom head to be enveloped in that soft heat, Nolan’s cheeks hollowing around it.

John lets out a groan. Nolan keeps the soft suction, even as John gradually pushes further into his mouth. When John looks down, Nolan’s eyes are closed, hands utterly still and relaxed behind his back, twisted as they are in his shirt. 

He’s decided to try to be good, apparently. Only question is whether he wants to be told he is, or made to try harder. John knows what he’d like it to be, the familiar fantasy catching in his throat as he thinks about running a palm over heavy curls in reassurance, then twisting his fingers in hard and dragging back to order attention on him. In his mind the force lands like almost nothing on someone strong enough to push John back, but his fantasy goes anyway, willingly giving it up, going wherever John wants to put him. It’s only once John’s forced him back that he’d fight it, like he always does, green eyes a frozen shade paler than Nolan’s fixed on John until the thought sears and seizes in his chest. Maybe he wants to pinch Nolan to look up, he thinks around the heat, or maybe not.

Nolan makes that decision for John, ducking his head and taking John’s cock deep enough that he gags himself, tearing up as he coughs and coughs. The flutter of Nolan’s throat and the increase in pressure, however brief, is enough for John to get close, yanking Nolan back by the hair and striping his lips and cheeks white.

Nolan licks his lips, chasing the taste, maybe, and falls forward when John lets go, lapping at John’s spent cock, cleaning him up with flat, broad strokes of his tongue.

John smooths those dark rumpled strands back in place. “There you go, sweetheart,” he croons. “Doing so good for me.”

Nolan’s still hard—has been hard since before John put him on his knees—and when he whines this time, John hears a note of pleading. He shifts his weight, rocking back on his heels.

His knees are probably getting sore, John thinks, as long as he’s been kneeling on shitty hotel carpet.

“Up you come,” John decides, getting a hand beneath Nolan’s bicep and hauling him upward. Nolan stumbles getting his feet under him, but sways into John’s space automatically, clearly figuring John’s going to pull him over his lap. And, well.

John pushes back a smile and gets a hand on the kid’s hip, pushing him around until all John can see is a broad, pale back and long fingers wrapped in Flyers-orange cotton. John guides Nolan back with both hands, nudging his knees between muscled thighs to settle Nolan snugly against John’s chest, bound hands caught between John’s stomach and the small of Nolan’s back, thighs spread wide over John’s own. 

Nolan immediately tries a complicated kind of rubbing motion, working his ass down and hips rocking up and melting back into John’s chest all at once, and almost falls off. John catches him with a hand across his stomach. Since Nolan can’t see him anymore he allows himself an eyeroll, but then Nolan twitches, maybe ticklish, muscles tensing and going soft again under John’s palm, and he gets distracted. Nolan might be tall, but he’s scrawny enough for John’s hands to span most of his belly or curl over his thigh, covering pale shivering skin. John pauses to adjust them so he can see over Nolan’s scarecrow shoulders, and Nolan tries to help, and wobbles again.

“What,” John says, and then just waits with his face tucked close to Nolan’s shoulder to give him a chance to make a complaining noise, which presses his own nape to John’s mouth in half a kiss. Nolan’s noise stutters and drops to a sigh. “You want to get off already?”

“Oh my god,” Nolan mumbles, “’hate you.” John can feel the rumble of his voice through Nolan’s ribs, all down his chest, except where it’s muffled by his hands trapped between them. There’s tension there, tight in his arms, hiding even as the rest of him tries to be soft. When John circles his thumb over his abdominals and slides his other hand higher over the bared skin of his inner thighs, Nolan squirms and then relaxes into what must be shocking warmth.

“That one was a pun,” John notes, and kisses his neck properly in reassurance. Nolan giggles and complains, an awkwardly deep hiccuping sound. John wraps him a little tighter, using his new hold to tug him back, so the long lush sway of Nolan’s spine is pressed to his chest and Nolan can rock a little better, even as John keeps his legs spread wide. He’s earned his reward, and John’s not going to withhold that just for him being a brat, which seems to be all he needed to know, but John’s not going to let him move just any way he wants to, either. 

He sighs when John pinches his inner thighs, and hisses when John soothes over the sting with warm fingertips. The marks won’t last beyond the night. John knows better than to leave any where curious teammates will find especially funny later, even if Nolan’s begging for them now. 

John keeps teasing, running fingertips up toward the crease of Nolan’s thigh, skimming over soft hair. Even without any bruises bringing warmth to his skin he’s achingly hot, and then John’s wandering fingers slip through his curls, finding where he’s already streaked himself with slick. He’s been hard almost since they started, the wetness hot between John’s fingertips when he rubs them together, then draws them up over Nolan’s balls to wrap around his dick.

Nolan squirms, too overwhelmed to decide if he wants to rub into the touch or work himself back. He’s been on edge for too long, and doesn’t make the best decisions even when he isn’t. But John gives him a tiny shake with the arm still wrapped around Nolan and then pins him pointedly still, more than strong enough to hold him steady, and offers him a slow circle of John’s thumb over the head of his dick.

Nolan lets out a noise, jerking in John’s hold. John’s fingers press against Nolan’s stomach just the smallest bit more, not yet enough to leave bruises, but enough to redden Nolan’s skin. “Easy now, hm?”

John sets a slow pace, exploring the length and girth of Nolan’s pretty cock, the slide easy. Nolan pants, head lolling back against John’s shoulder even as he arches to avoid pinning his own arms between their bodies. It makes for a gorgeous tableau, John able to look down the pale expanse of Nolan’s torso to where the head of his cock peeks out between John’s fingers.

John picks up the pace; Nolan lets out little hurt noises every time John swipes his thumb over the leaking head, muscles jumping and tensing beneath John’s palm. “You’re alright,” John reminds him, giving him another reassuring squeeze with that hand before flicking his thumb over the ridged band below the silky head of Nolan’s cock to get a hoarse squeak out of him. “You want less?” He can feel it when Nolan shakes his head, straggling strands of hair in John’s face. “More?”

“Yes,” Nolan says, as quick as John ordered him to, and then even that seems to take the breath out of him as Nolan lets his head fall back, searching for more touch. 

John kisses behind his ear, his bared throat, the warm threat of teeth where he can’t bite, and works him tighter. “That’s right,” he says. “You’re gonna take whatever I give you. You were good, you’re doing good, aren’t you. Come on, sweetheart,” and Nolan whimpers. He rubs himself back and then pushes forward as much as he can while John’s holding him, fucking into John’s fist and making John’s fingers dig harder into his skin. He comes just like he was told to, hoarse voice cracked to hell and quaking in John’s arms.

John strokes him through it, and stops just before it probably hurts. Nolan lifts his head long enough to whine and then falls back, because there’s only so good he can be, but that’s alright. John shifts Nolan’s legs across his lap, letting them fall closed, and then keeps the hand on Nolan’s stomach as he sets the other on Nolan’s bony shoulder and pushes him forward.

Nolan flops, whining more, but making space so John can reach the fabric still bound around his wrists. When he undoes it Nolan almost doesn’t seem to notice, hands staying where they should be until John gathers them and moves them back around to rest on Nolan’s thighs. He takes the opportunity to feel those thighs up again while they’re there, which makes Nolan purr, then swings Nolan’s leg over his to turn Nolan toward him, and from there he can lift and lay Nolan carefully out on the hotel bed. 

Nolan makes a grabby gesture. John would roll his eyes, but Nolan winces, so John sits next to him without commentary, picking up one hand and then the other to massage the blood back into them. Nolan flexes aimlessly while he works them over, maybe testing if he still can or maybe just to be difficult.

“How are you doing?” John asks after a couple minutes. Nolan has let his eyes fall closed, and he keeps his voice low in case Nolan’s on the way to sleep.

Nolan’s pale lashes flutter, and he scrunches his nose. “On a bed,” he mumbles, some of that smugness blooming back into his tone. 

“You sure are,” John confirms. It helps to focus on the facts as somebody comes down. It helps John to just acknowledge the fine details, how the person he’s playing with reminds him of who he’d rather have in his bed, in order to separate that out enough not to be a total dick to them. “Yeah, you earned that, didn’t you.”

Nolan hums, a scratchy pepper-grinder kind of purr. His cheeks are pinking up again, but the color settles easily instead of spreading, and then he shivers. He turns it into a pointed squirm, biting his lip again like he wants something as he makes more space beside him.

John folds both Nolan’s bony hands over his ribs and rolls him first one way then the other to tug out the quilts. As he leans in, Nolan snags ahold of John’s hand again, pressing his own back into John’s grip in a clear request. The edge of the bed is actually getting old after playing a whole hockey game and then this one, so John concedes to sit against the headboard, legs stretched out along Nolan’s side, which he immediately interprets as a pillow, and keeps rubbing simple circles into Nolan’s too-big palms until he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Escalating from our last project, we wrote this fic simultaneously, from both ends, without plotting it out, alternating a sentence or a paragraph at a time. Other than the moment where A. got sick of waiting and finished my sentence with "HE TOUCHES THE DICK" and I wailed "I don't know how!" it went pretty alright. 
> 
> If you can pick out a line A. and G. each wrote, you win a ficlet.


End file.
